Say goodbye to me, and let me hear your footsteps as you walk away.

Supposedly, tomorrow is the end of my assignment with King Lear. I was invited to a special going-away dinner for him at a fancy restaurant tomorrow night, but there's no way in hell I'm going to sit there and watch 20 people spend my husband's salary in one night on steaks and alcohol (the animosity about my husband's salary, dear reader, is because he was laid off from this very studio for budgetary reasons).

The King has become rather grumpy as of late, as grumpy as a Englishman will show on the outside at least, which means inside he is a fuming chaotic ball of hate. Hate is the right word, for he's truly come to hate America and all its inefficiencies. Yes, it's not because of our politics, nor our greed, nor our shoddy accents that KL hates America, it's because he has to be slightly inconvenienced on occasion.

For instance: The other day, he wanted to mail a letter, but the postage rate went up and he only had 39 cent stamps! *flabberghastation!*

Also: The studio travel agents apparently are total nincompoops because they can't guarantee him a window seat in first class for a last-minute flight booking!

And: He left a check for the pool man in the refrigerator and the pool man didn't find it! What kind of idiots do we have around here in the USA?

And on and on. And on. And on.

It seems that once people have money, they seem to forget that they are living on Planet Earth and start thinking they live on Planet Themselves. King Lear is endlessly complaining to me about his misfortunes, expecting me to grieve with him. I am NEVER going to feel sorry for you, sir, no matter how much you complain that you sold your car and ONLY got $45,000 in cash for it. That is almost double my yearly salary, sir. I will not pity you for the endless hours you spend on the phone nattering at your builder in London, where you are doing the practically unheard of task of building a gigantic new home in Soho for millions and millions of pounds. I don't care that your gargantuan art collection hasn't yet arrived to England's shores from their shipment out of the ports of Los Angeles.

Have fun rolling around in your riches, wherever you go from here, sir. You go alone, with no one to love, and no one to love you. I hope you find whatever it is that fills the hole, and I hope it's something to do with charity and giving and realizing that the world owes you nothing, not even a more efficient postal forwarding system.